


maybe Wanda could be home, too

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Clint just wants to bedazzle his turtle, F/F, Family Bonding, Gay Panic™, Getting Together, IT'S GAY, Lesbian Wanda Maximoff, Mutual Pining, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Natasha has a lot of feelings, Natasha wants to hold Wanda's hand and be gay together, Pietro Maximoff Lives, about Wanda, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 17:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18254867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Basically, Clint drags a reluctant Natasha into platonic co-parenting of Disaster Lesbian™ Wanda and plain Disaster™ Pietro Maximoff... They go on family trips to the park sometimes. It's cute.





	1. co-parenting??

**Author's Note:**

> Umm so this is my first fic, and I'm a bit nervous.... but I'd love to know your thoughts on it all, so don't be afraid to leave a comment!

“Hard pass.”

 

Clint just rolled his eyes, clearly not deterred by Natasha’s obvious lack of enthusiasm. “C’mon… it’ll be fun!”

 

Natasha just squinted at him for a long moment. “Coffee’s ready,” she said finally, eliciting another eye-roll from her partner.

Clint sighed, but got up from his seat, groaning as he did a quick stretch. “You didn’t answer my question,” he called over his shoulder as he padded barefoot into the newly renovated kitchen on the 5th floor of the Avengers tower, returning to the dining room a moment later with two steaming mugs of coffee in hand. 

 

“I think I did, actually,” she said, quirking an eyebrow. “And I believe my exact words were: ‘hard pass.’"

 

“Tasha, please,” the archer whined, placing both mugs on the tabletop before plopping into a chair adjacent to his partner, pushing his bottom lip dramatically out to form an adorable pout and looking at her with pleading eyes.

 

(Clint was the only one who got to call her 'Tasha’ or ’Nat’…well, Coulson too, sometimes. Natasha took a brief moment to be glad Tony wasn’t present to witness Clint addressing her so informally and walking away unscathed—the playboy genius billionaire _idiot_ had been trying out different nicknames on her for weeks. Yesterday he’d greeted her with a cheerful “‘Morning, Little Spider!”, only to let out an alarmed yelp as a throwing knife promptly buried itself into the dry wall inches from his head in retaliation.

 

Once he’d gotten over the initial shock, Tony was positively scandalized, blubbering about human decency and house rules and how Capsicle would be _very_ upset at her clearly demonstrated inability to play well with others.

 

Natasha just shrugged at that, delighting in his slight flinch as she approached to pluck the steaming coffee mug from his hands. Then she promptly turned and waltzed back to her quarters, leaving a shocked and disgruntled Tony in her wake.)

 

“No,” Natasha said back pointedly, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the pale skin beneath her exposed collarbone. “And I’m not Phil; you know that pout won’t work on me.”

 

Clint groaned loudly in defeat, letting his features relax into something decidedly more neutral as he scratched at the dirty-blonde mess of hair on his scalp. “Fine, fine,” he said, a thoughtful glint in his bright blue eyes. “But really, Tash… I just wanna do one lunch with the four of us. Pietro was pretty shaken up after Sokovia. Wanda, too. I know I get along with Pietro pretty well, the quick little bastard, but I don’t want Wanda to feel left out, and you guys have a lot of things in common. It’s just lunch, I promise.”

 

Natasha raised a single perfectly-manicured eyebrow. “And will this lunch also include signing the adoption papers?” she quipped.

 

Clint rolled his eyes, but didn’t look all that amused. “Very funny.”

 

Natasha let out a small and barely-noticeable sigh then, bringing her legging-clad knees up to her chest and sipping her coffee mindfully—Clint was clearly more serious about this than she’d thought.

 

After a brief silence she found herself finally acquiescing with a small nod, pointedly ignoring Clint’s enthusiastic fist pump as she did. “So when is this happening?” she asked, taking another sip from her mug.

 

Immediately Clint adopted a contrite expression, one that told Natasha she probably wasn’t going to like the answer. “Today..?” he said in a strangled tone.

 

Natasha pursed her full lips, fixing her partner with an unamused gaze. “You planned this with them days ago, didn’t you.” Despite the phrasing, it definitely wasn’t a question.

 

Clint just nodded in response, a guilty smile spread across his face.

 

She tilted her head curiously. “And what if I’d said no?”

 

Clint’s blue eyes widened as he stared blankly back at her, because wow, he really hadn’t thought about that. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, then opened it one more time— _He looks remarkably like a fish out of water,_ Natasha thought.

 

The redheaded assassin took pity on Clint eventually, rolling her green eyes and shooting her trademark smirk at the man. “Well, I said yes, so I guess you’re off the hook this time.”

 

(Inwardly she had a bit of a laugh at that, because a 'fish out of water’ and then ‘you’re off the hook’? Amazing. She’d tell Phil about it later—he’d find it funny.)


	2. hm... co-parenting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint tries to cook. (It goes about as well as you'd expect.)

Natasha withheld a sigh as she took a seat across from Clint at the dining table. Wanda was already seated primly in the chair next to her, long brown hair flowing down thin shoulders. She’d applied only light makeup today, revealing an adorable spatter of freckles across her pale cheeks. _She looks beautiful,_ Natasha thought.

 

(Natasha had long ago resigned herself to the fact that she was both attracted to and intrigued by Wanda Maximoff, because with her room just down the hall from Natasha's, it became rather exhausting to scold herself every time she saw the Sokovian girl in passing and inevitably found herself thinking about how good she smelled, or how her nose scrunched when she smiled, or how beautiful she looked when tendrils of glowing red surrounded her and her eyes glittered like rubies.

 

No, Natasha had other things to worry about, like saving the literal world and not impaling Stark with a weapon of her choice every time he said something stupid… and besides, she didn’t have a shot in hell with the younger girl, because Wanda was just so unfailingly _pure_ , retaining a childlike optimism about her even in the face of a perpetually cruel world and flashing her beautifully unguarded smile at anything that peaked her interest. God, she was lovely.

 

And therein laid the problem: she was lovely, and Natasha wasn’t quite sure she’d ever truly known the meaning of the word. Wanda was fucking _beautiful_ and deserved nothing less than the world; Natasha was a walking tragedy with absolutely nothing of substance to offer the beautiful young witch.

 

No, Wanda deserved better than Natasha.

 

So she’d be whatever the Scarlet Witch wanted her to be—a friend, a mentor, an acquaintance. Meanwhile, she might think sometimes about grasping Wanda's hand in hers as they sparred, or tucking stray locks of beautiful hair behind her ear when they exchanged small talk in Russian or Sokovian at mealtimes… but she would remain realistic through it all, accepting of the fact that she’d never have the intimacy with Wanda that she craved.

 

And for Natasha, that would have to be enough.)

 

Natasha shook herself from her thoughts to observe the scene before her, inwardly rolling her eyes at the fact that she’d _willingly _agreed to attend… whatever this was. Wanda was watching Clint and Pietro with mild concern as they bickered energetically about something, though her cloudy blue (or were they brown?) eyes flicked cautiously to Natasha more than once as she slid herself into the seat at Wanda’s side. Natasha didn’t take offense to that—she understood the impulse, and it was only due to years of training that she could exercise the same amount of caution at all times without being nearly as obvious about it.__

__

__Pietro was seated across from his sister and next to Clint in a dark blue T-shirt that starkly offset his windswept platinum blonde hair, the young Sokovian grinning widely as he rolled his eyes theatrically and let out a loud snort at something Clint had just said._ _

__

__Natasha waited for a lull in the conversation, before saying, “Sorry I was late… This pizza smells great, though.” She eyed the three grease-stained boxes in the center of the table, smirking as she remembered Clint telling her just this morning that he was going to try cooking Phil’s Japanese-style fried chicken for lunch with the twins. “Cooking didn’t go so great then?” she asked her partner pointedly, gracefully plucking the bottle of Moscato (one of her favorite wines) from Clint’s end and pouring herself a glass._ _

__

__Pietro coughed into his hand. “You were going to cook?” he asked the archer, eyes wide with disbelief as a grin grew across his face._ _

__

__Clint just grumbled, mumbling something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “You’re all a bunch of assholes."_ _

__

__Wanda let out a small laugh at that (causing a tingling warmth to spread through Natasha’s chest), her blue eyes dancing with amusement._ _

__

__Clint just crossed his tanned arms over his chest indignantly. “I tried, okay? Cooking is hard,” he pouted, then mumbled under his breath, “I miss Phil.”_ _

__

__Seeing an opportunity, Natasha promptly mocked throwing up into her wine glass at his gag-worthy display of longing, shooting another smirk at a narrow-eyed Clint as Pietro’s laugh filled the room along with a strangled noise on Wanda’s part as she tried to suppress her giggle._ _

__

__“You know what,” Clint said crossly, pointing a single finger at a still-smirking Natasha. “Just for that, you don’t get to be best man at me and Phil’s wedding anymore.”_ _

__

__Natasha raised an eyebrow at that, feeling three pairs of eyes on her as they waited to hear the redheaded assassin's rebuttal. “That’s adorable,” she chuckled, lazily tracing the rim of her wine glass with a deft finger. “But you know me, Barton, and you know I _always_ plan ahead: Whoever else you choose will promptly disappear under ‘mysterious circumstances’—” she used her fingers to make air quotes “—well before the date of the wedding, and you’ll be forced to choose someone else.. and if that ’someone else’ happens to not be me, I have a hunch they’ll meet the same unfortunate fate as the first guy, and so on, and so on, until, inevitably, I’m the only option left,” she finished, grinning widely as she leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other. “You can’t escape me that easily.”_ _

__

__Clint’s features were screwed up in childlike concentration, clearly thinking hard about a way to circumvent his partner’s thinking. “Ooh!” he said, eyes lighting up. “What if I made Fury my best man? You’d never kidnap our _boss_ —"_ _

__

__“Fury would never agree to be your best man,” Natasha interjected with a snort, sipping coolly at her wine._ _

__

__“Fair point,” Clint replied, taking Natasha’s quip in stride. “What about.. _Oh!_ Oh, I know—Pietro! He’s way too fast; you’d never catch him!!” he clapped an arm around Pietro’s muscular shoulders, beaming at an unimpressed Natasha as he clutched the Sokovian boy tightly to his side._ _

__

__The corner of Natasha’s mouth twitched as she tilted her head to survey the pair across from her, deciding she might as well have some fun with them. “He’s probably not quite so fast when he’s unconscious,” she said cryptically, draining the last of the Moscato from her glass and reaching to pour herself another._ _

__

__Clint just rolled his eyes at her response, fairly used to Natasha’s dark humor and perpetual threats of grievous bodily harm; Pietro, however, was gaping at the smug redheaded woman with an alarmed expression, looking very much like he was seconds away from fainting. Natasha desperately fought the urge to laugh at the boy’s panicked expression._ _

__

__“I wouldn’t actually kidnap you, you know. We’re on the same team. Pinky promise,” she assured him with a wink._ _

__

__Pietro just nodded, still looking vaguely terrified._ _

__

__“Oh, I don’t think you should make that promise,” came Wanda’s heavily-accented voice from Natasha’s side as the young witch grinned good-naturedly at her twin. “I think the occasional time-out would be good for my brother, especially when he gets a little too self-important—personally, I love the kidnapping idea,” she finished playfully, her stormy blue eyes crinkling at the edges as she turned to meet Natasha’s gaze._ _

__

__Pietro’s expression morphed quickly from mildly fearful to mockingly offended as he devolved into a detailed rant defending his honor and sense of ‘self-importance,’ as Wanda had put it, but the two women paid very little attention to him: Natasha was lost for a second or two (it felt like a blissful eternity) as she locked eyes with the young witch beside her, a rare and genuine smile pulling at her features as Wanda grinned warmly back._ _

__

__Far too soon, the moment was shattered, Wanda’s attention drawn to Pietro as his indignant rant doubled in volume. Natasha swallowed thickly, closing her eyes for a moment to compose herself, before reaching again for her wine glass because _Christ _, she hadn’t consumed nearly enough alcohol to be dealing with this. She pointedly ignored the knowing look Clint shot her as she drained her second glass of Moscato for the night, and sent a silent ’thank you’ up to whoever was listening when Pietro’s stomach grumbled loudly and he announced that they had to start eating like, right now, or he might starve.___ _

____ _ _

____The remainder of the lunch consisted of easy conversation as they all dug into their respective pies—Hawaiian for Clint (he begrudgingly allowed Natasha to steal a few bites), pepperoni for Pietro (the entire pie was gone in record time), and plain cheese for Wanda and Natasha._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____(Natasha’s hands tingled with warmth every time they brushed Wanda’s reaching for a slice, and she delighted in the blush that spread across the younger girl’s cheeks as a result—God, she was such a goner.)_ _ _ _


	3. ah, yes: Gay Panic™

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is having Feelings™, and Pepper doesn't get paid nearly enough to deal with everyone's shit. (She actually doesn't get paid at all, but that's besides the point.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave comments and let me know what you think!

Unfortunately (or fortunately, Natasha really couldn’t decide), meals with Clint and the Maximoff twins became routine after that first lunch. Sometimes they’d venture outside the tower to eat at a new restaurant in the city or grab hot dogs from street vendors and spend the day at the park; sometimes they opted instead to stay in and lounge around the tower with takeout and a movie.

 

(They took turns on picking the movie for each night. There’d been some particularly memorable clashes that got way out of hand as a result of people feeling quite strongly about watching one thing or the other, like that time Clint wanted to watch that Disney movie “Brave” and Natasha wanted to watch literally anything but that, which devolved fairly quickly into an all-out war between the two assassins—Pepper came down the next day to yell at both agents for a slew of arrows impaling the sleek leather upholstery in the TV room and the various knives lodged in the walls.

 

It was almost comical how the pair seemed to shrink under Pepper’s stern gaze, nodding meekly as she told them off, responding only when she’d finished to say how sorry they were for putting holes in her furniture and stab-marks in the walls. She just eyed them up and down, clearly unimpressed, before turning on her heel to leave while throwing a “Don’t let this happen again” over her shoulder.

 

Needless to say, the ‘taking turns’ rule was put into action shortly thereafter to avoid any repeats of the event.)

 

The movie nights especially made Natasha nervous, because after one instance involving a good deal of vodka and a showing of the first Transformers movie (it had been Pietro’s turn to pick), she’d woken at around 2am to find a sleeping Wanda curled adorably into her side on the leather couch, one pale arm slung around her waist, cheek nestled comfortably against the older woman’s breastbone.

 

Ever since then, Wanda had become increasingly tactile with Natasha: immediately resting her head on the assassin's shoulder as they settled in for movie nights, grasping her hand when she was excited about something; and recently, she'd adopted the habit of flinging herself into Natasha’s arms for a tight hug in lieu of a greeting. The first time Natasha had found herself with an armful of Wanda as the young witch mumbled a shy “Hey” into the crook of the her neck, the assassin was positively overcome with—what was that phrase she’d heard Darcy use earlier? Ah, yes: Gay Panic.

 

Which was horribly fitting, because God, Natasha was just so _gay_ , and so distressed by her feelings for the younger girl, and… yeah, this was bad—she had it _bad_.

 

It also didn’t help that Clint was most always there to witness Natasha's moments of spectacular Gay Panic whenever she found herself in the presence of the young witch—and though Natasha’s training had forced her to grow quite good at hiding, but she couldn’t hide from Clint (she never could).

 

Clint could see, clear as day, how Natasha’s brain literally stopped functioning the first time Wanda leaned down to brush her lips against the redhead’s cheek, whispering a soft “Good night” in the assassin’s ear before turning to join Pietro in walking each other back to their quarters. Natasha was stunned, her cheek tingling where Wanda’s lips had been—honestly, she’s not sure how long she stood there, frozen and gaping after the young witch like an idiot before she realized that Clint was _still_ there, lounging cross-legged on the couch with a knowing smirk she yearned to smack off his stupid face.

 

Natasha had just glared at her partner as his smirk widened, the archer taking a unique pleasure at the sight of his usually cool-headed partner looking so thoroughly flustered.

 

Eventually, Clint bounced up from the couch, ignoring Natasha’s foul mood as he slung an arm around her tense shoulders. “So, Maximoff, huh?” Clint said smugly after a loaded pause, eyeing her with a shit-eating grin on his face. “I mean, I get it—she’s hot—"

 

He never got to finish his thought, abruptly cut off by Natasha’s thighs wrapping around his neck in a steel grip as she used her momentum to violently propel the man's face forwards and into the ground. She then proceeded to sit comfortably on top of Clint’s sprawled figure as he squirmed in a futile attempt to buck her off, thighs firmly clamped around the archer's neck until she was satisfied she’d made her point.

 

(Pepper came down for another “chat” with the assassins after that. There weren’t any knives or arrows this time, and Clint’s nose was bruised but thankfully not broken—but Natasha’s maneuver had face-planted Clint firmly into one of Tony’s newer tablets, which snapped easily under the pressure of Clint’s full body weight, ultimately warranting yet another very unpleasant lecture from a thoroughly unimpressed Pepper Potts.

 

After getting chewed out by Pepper, Natasha went a whole week without physically assaulting her partner—a record amount of time, according to Clint.)


	4. "i'm proud of you, tash."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha talk. It gets emotional.

“You should ask her out,” Clint said conversationally as he let loose another perfectly-placed arrow, the projectile burying itself milliseconds later with a satisfying _thwack!_ in the yellow-painted bullseye of the wooden target.

 

Natasha didn’t look up as she continued disassembling the standard SHIELD-issue Barrett M99 (she preferred the Dragunov, clearly the superior weapon in the sniper class, but she suspected the Americans were too proud to make a Russian model standard-issue). “Who?” she asked, feigning ignorance and hoping he would just drop it.

 

He didn’t. (Obviously.)

 

“You know who,” he said pointedly without turning to look at her, pulling the string of his bow taut as he took aim again. _Thwack!_

 

Natasha sighed, her practiced fingers easily unscrewing the barrel from the rifle, her mind elsewhere. _Thwack!_ “There’s no way that ends well,” she replied, putting a concerted effort into keeping her voice even—she didn’t want to let on how much the idea scared her. And it did. A lot.

 

She’d never really _done_ that—asking someone to go out just because she liked them. Sure, she’d approached plenty of men (and women) with bashful eyes and a flirty smile, propositioning them for drinks, or dinner, or bed… but that had always been for the mission, because her personal feelings didn’t _matter_ (she still has trouble believing that they do). 

 

When she was younger, a brainwashed teenaged dancer on the KGB’s payroll, she hated forcing herself to giggle at sleazy politicians’ jokes and pitching fake moans of pleasure in the bedroom as they used her body as they pleased, all for the sole purpose of finding one flimsy file or a seemingly trivial shred of information that would make her employers happy. Eventually, though, she grew used to it—found a curious sort of comfort in it, even.

 

It was routine, and after years of brutal conditioning and meaningless violence, she rather liked routine. Playing her mark became second nature—after a little while, nothing they did surprised her; she’d seen it all before. She’d flirt, play the part, and in some cases, let them take her to bed. It wasn’t pleasurable, but it was uniquely satisfying in a way, knowing she could pull delicately at their strings even as they labored under the delusion that they were still somehow in control of the situation… until she’d returned to debrief with whatever she’d needed to take from them, and they were miles away with dopey grins on their faces, none the wiser to the fact that they’d been played.

 

That was easy—Natasha could do that. 

 

But Wanda wasn’t a mark, and Natasha recoiled violently at even the thought of comparing the beautiful young witch to the greedy politicians and billionaire degenerates she’d been made to bed in the past. 

 

No, Wanda was a hell of a lot better than them, a hell of a lot better than they could ever be. A hell of a lot better than _Natasha_ could ever be.

 

She gradually became aware of Clint’s voice addressing her, pulling her from her thoughts. “…you know, I can tell she likes you, too,” he was saying, sharp eyes still fixed on the wooden target. _Thwack!_

 

Natasha’s hands stilled on the sniper rifle in her grip, resenting the way her heart skipped a beat at Clint’s comment. _Thwack!_ She wanted desperately to say _"There’s no way she’d want me back,”_ and _"She’s beautiful and I’m a killer,”_ and _"Please, please don’t get my hopes up,”_ but she wasn’t ready for that, wasn’t ready to let Clint see how fucking _gone_ she was for Wanda—because the true extent of it was nothing short of terrifying. 

 

Eventually she settled on a vague response: “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she responded, her hands continuing to fiddle with the Barrett’s scope.

 

She heard Clint sigh, then the sound of him setting his compound bow aside and undoing the straps of his armguard. _Dammit,_ she thought, his light footsteps approaching her. _Here comes the heart-to-heart._

 

Natasha didn’t look up from her spot on the bench as Clint slid into place beside her, the wooden plank groaning slightly at the added weight. “Tasha,” he said softly. 

 

She ignored the feel of his gentle gaze boring into her her, focusing instead on detaching the scope from the gun, anything to avoid talking about _this_. 

 

“Tasha,” Clint sighed. “Put the rifle down.”

 

If it had been anyone else, Natasha might’ve promptly strangled them, or perhaps lied in wait until some ungodly hour of the night to exact her revenge for having the audacity to give her an order—but this was Clint, her _partner_ and the only man (besides Coulson) she trusted with even the ugliest pieces of herself. 

 

She put the rifle down. 

 

They sat there in a long silence, Natasha stubbornly refusing to meet Clint’s eyes as she stared at the ground between her feet. She knew he was waiting for her to talk, which frustrated her; it only frustrated her further to know he knew her well enough to know that she’d eventually crack. _Damn him,_ Natasha thought. 

 

“I don’t deserve her,” Natasha croaked out eventually, eyes still fixed on the granite flooring of the training room. 

 

“Tasha, that’s not your call to make,” Clint responded, voice low and gentle. 

 

The redhead just blinked. “She’s too young,” she said numbly, “she has no _idea_ what I’ve done, the people I’ve hurt—"

 

“Nat, they turn 23 this May,” Clint pointed out.

 

Natasha’s lip quirked. “You sure about not wanting to adopt them, Barton?” 

 

He smiled at that. “I have an appointment with my lawyers tomorrow,” he answered wryly.

 

His partner grinned a little wider but didn’t reply as they lapsed into another comfortable silence, a thoughtful expression on Natasha’s features.

 

“I’ve seen the way you look at each other, Nat,” Clint spoke softly, breaking the silence. “According to Pietro, she never stops talking about you, and he’s frustrated as all hell that you haven’t just asked her out already to put him out of his misery… what’s more, I’ve never seen you like this—you’re so happy and open with her, whether you realize it or not,” he paused for a moment. “You know, I never thought I deserved someone like Phil… sometimes I still don’t,” the archer chuckled lightly. “But again, it’s not fair of me to decide that for him, because for a reason that’s completely beyond me, he loves me, and I make him happy; I don’t get to deny him that just because I don’t always understand what he could possibly see in an ex-bow-for-hire with an index of enemies longer than Santa’s naughty list,” Natasha rolled her eyes at that, but watched Clint with vulnerable eyes as he spoke. “Look, Tash, I know you don’t think you deserve good things… but you do, and you always have. And I know you don’t believe that, but I think you do know that Wanda wants you, too, just as much as you want her. And for once, I just want you to let yourself be selfish; accept her love even if you don’t think you deserve it. The rest of it can wait but this… you need this. Do you think you can do that for me?” 

 

Natasha bit her lip hard as she Clint’s words hit her like a tidal wave. If she was younger and not quite so damaged, she probably would have cried. Instead she took a deep and shaky breath, thinking about Clint’s sole request: _“Be selfish… even if you don’t think you deserve it…. Do you think you can do that for me?”_ God, he’d phrased it so gently, making her feel so small and fragile and _loved_ in a way she was deeply unfamiliar with. 

 

It terrified her, but wow, it felt good—like for once in her life, she felt she could jump into the unknown without the dread-filled certainty that she could only rely on herself to break the fall before her. For once in her life, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that someone was down there waiting for her, even if Wanda hated her or she managed to fuck everything up or her demons got the best of her again. 

 

It hit her then that she had Clint at the end of it all—Clint would be waiting for her with his trademark boyish grin and a calming presence that felt suspiciously like home as his strong arms enveloped her, even despite the fact that she’s quite sure she’d never known anything so warm and welcoming in her life, that she had no frame of reference for what ‘home’ should even feel like. 

 

Sitting there with Clint, though, she felt like she might be starting to understand, and the realization was enough to make her chest to ache with a sort of belonging that was both terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

 

Clint’s question still echoed in her mind, and she could feel his patient stare upon her as he sat waiting for a response. _“Do you think you can do that for me?”_ She didn’t let herself think too hard on it—just nodded at her partner, cautious but sure. 

 

“Yeah,” Natasha said hoarsely, finally lifting her chin to meet his bright blue eyes. “Yeah, I think I can do that.”

 

A slow and genuine grin spread widely across Clint’s features as he took in the newfound determination sparkling in Natasha’s intelligent green eyes and the shy smile dimpling her pale cheeks. 

 

“I’m proud of you, Tash,” he mumbled quietly, leaning deftly to place a loving kiss on the woman’s forehead.

 

Natasha fought back the urge to shed a tear as Clint's lips pressed softly against her forehead, not trusting herself to speak as she silently rested her head on her partner's muscled shoulder.

 

She felt safe as she sat there with the person she trusted most in the world; she felt like she was home.


	5. "what do you MEAN you have to bedazzle your newly adopted pet turtle?!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda and Nat finally talk. (Spoiler alert: it's gay.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the last chapter. Enjoy!

Natasha glared at her phone, because exactly 2 minutes before everyone was meant to show up for the next ‘family date’ with the twins, both Clint and Pietro had sent texts in the group chat with pitifully constructed excuses for taking a rain check on that day's plans, along with a smug “go get your girl! ;)” on Clint’s part. 

 

(Seriously, Pietro’s excuse had been, word-for-word, “I have a Tinder date in Sri Lanka,” while Clint hadn’t even bothered to try for subtlety, claiming that he had to “bedazzle his and Phil’s newly adopted pet turtle.” She was going to _kill_ her partner.)

 

She sighed, putting her phone to sleep and sliding it onto the marble countertop as she stood alone in the tower’s kitchen, where they’d all agreed to meet up. 

 

(She will say, though, she was more than a bit relieved that that day's plans looked like they weren’t happening—Clint had been campaigning for a ‘family bowling field trip’ with an enthusiastic Pietro at his side for months, and he’d eventually worn Natasha down until she’d agreed to go on one trip, if only because the Sokovian twins had never been before. 

 

So, _fine_ , she decided. Pietro could act like he was getting lucky with his made-up Tinder date in Sri Lanka, and Clint could bedazzle his non-existent turtle all he wanted, but they’d only aided her in avoiding the horrors of musty alleys and shudder-worthy bowling shoes and horrible cheap American beer—so, _there_.)

 

She debated just returning to her quarters and planning something else for the day, or maybe settling in for a Supernatural marathon (with the tower mostly empty, she could indulge her guilty fan-girl pleasures to her heart’s desire), but decided to wait for a little longer—maybe Wanda would still show, and she really didn’t want the girl to come down to an empty kitchen and assume everyone had bailed on her. (Ugh, she was getting soft.)

 

Lost in thought, her hands coming to down to fidget with the edges of her black tank top, she belatedly registered the sound of Wanda’s soft footsteps padding down the hallway towards the kitchen, towards _Natasha_. 

 

Natasha's breath caught in her throat when the young witch turned the corner and waltzed into the kitchen, looking positively angelic and biting her lip in adorable nervousness as she stood across from her. The assassin froze in place where she stood leaned against the counter, taking in Wanda’s low-cut maroon V-neck tee, tucked haphazardly at the front into ripped black jeans that clung to her legs like a second skin. Her hair was down, flowing beautifully over one shoulder, makeup done lightly (Natasha loved this fresh-faced look on Wanda, especially as she so rarely wore it), her sparkling blue eyes tinged with a chocolate brown.

 

Wanda tilted her head curiously at Natasha’s distracted gaze, fiddling with the silver rings on her thin fingers to quell her anxiety as the older woman just _looked_ at her (or her body, really), sharp green eyes filled with an uncharacteristic softness that made Wanda’s heart flutter. Eventually Natasha’s eyes came up to meet hers, a light blush tinting the assassin’s cheeks at having been caught staring. 

 

Wanda just smiled shyly when their eyes met, head slightly bowed, a sudden wave of confidence overtaking her as she approached Natasha, wrapping her arms around the shorter woman’s neck and melting into her warmth, humming contently as she felt the assassin's arms wrap tightly around her waist without hesitation. 

 

Eventually, they pulled apart, Natasha immediately missing the warmth of Wanda’s body pressed against hers. Curiously, though, the young witch didn’t make a move to step out of Natasha’s personal space, more or less trapping the redhead in place as her back pressed almost painfully against the kitchen counter and _God_ , she smelled good.

 

 _Is this karma?_ Natasha couldn’t help but wonder. _For killing people? Because really, this was a whole new level of cruel._

 

“Um,” Natasha croaked out eventually, breaking the long-held silence between the two of them. (She felt a sudden and overpowering urge to smack herself for being so fucking _awkward_ , because _Really, Romanoff? ‘Um’ was the best you could come up with?_ )

 

Wanda— _perfect_ Wanda—didn’t seem to mind, though, just giggled at the older woman’s sudden inability to speak, waiting patiently as her hands came up to absentmindedly fiddle with the golden pendant on a thin golden chain resting between her breasts, barely visible above her tee’s low neckline… which didn’t help at all with Natasha’s current predicament, because suddenly her eyes were drawn to the expanse of smoothy milky skin of Wanda's chest, green eyes tracing perfect collarbones and the subtle movement of the witch’s pale fingers with black painted nails as they traced lazy patterns into her own pale skin. _Fuck_ , she thought. 

 

Wanda, meanwhile, was observing Natasha’s reactions with elated interest—Clint and Pietro had been telling the Sokovian girl for weeks that the Natasha had wanted her like that, too, but until now, she hadn’t been sure. She didn’t want to give the older woman a heart attack, but she’ll admit she was enjoying the sight of the normally cool and collected assassin tripping over words in her presence, a permanent blush tinging her high cheekbones, even as Wanda knew the older woman was no stranger to seduction… God, it was exhilarating to see the effect she had on her.

 

Natasha, oblivious to Wanda’s train of thought, was still panicking spectacularly, eyes darting to land everywhere but Wanda as she desperately tried to get her brain to work again. _Tell her she looks beautiful, you idiot!_ “Uh… hey,” she choked out, struggling to gather the courage to meet Wanda’s blue-eyed gaze. “I’m sorry for earlier with-with the staring, it’s just… You look…” she swallowed hard, shivering as their eyes met. “You look amazing.” _Well, it’s about time, you useless lesbian!_ her brain screamed unhelpfully at her. 

 

But then Wanda was grinning widely down at her, her warm breath tickling Natasha’s nose, saying “I was going to say the same to you” in her thick Sokovian accent, and suddenly Natasha couldn’t have possibly cared less about how useless and utterly _gay_ she was because God, she wished this moment would last forever.

 

Natasha could feel how quickly this situation was getting away from her, though, and she knew this was the moment: she had to tell her. Wanda’s responses told her that her advances would be welcomed, but she didn’t want a one-night stand with the girl—she wanted more, and she knew very well that that’s where she might lose her. _“I want you to let yourself be selfish,”_ Clint’s words echoed in her mind. _“Do you think you can do that for me?”_

 

Natasha took a deep breath then, breaking eye contact with the taller woman to stare down at the dried food stain (ketchup maybe?) on the edge of the marble countertop, thoughts racing. 

 

Immediately seeing Natasha’s shift in composure, Wanda’s brow furrowed, her hand coming up to rest over Natasha’s on the countertop. “What’s wrong?” the Sokovian woman asked sincerely. 

 

Natasha let out a deep sigh, willing herself to just say it already. _“Let yourself be selfish,”_ she thought.

 

“Wanda, I..” her mouth suddenly felt dry, but she forced herself to keep going, “I like you. Like, as more than a friend? Shit, that sounds juvenile. It’s just, I’ve been feeling like that for a while and I felt like I should do the right thing for once and just tell you,” she paused to think self-deprecatingly about how Clint-esque this bumbling rant of hers was, but she was unable to stop because she wanted—no, _needed_ —to tell Wanda everything, “and I totally understand if you don’t feel the same way or if you’re just being friendly by being so close to me and you know maybe you’re not even into girls! Fuck, I hadn’t even thought about that cause I’m pretty sure Vis is kind of into you it’s just I love being close with you and being your friend and I really _really_ don’t want to lose that because I’m not the kind of person that has friends or knows how friends even _work_ but I can’t stop thinking about kissing you and holding your hand and wow, I’m rambling but—“

 

She was abruptly cut off mid-rant by—oh. _Oh._ Wanda was _kissing _her, soft warm lips pressed firmly against Natasha’s, and the redheaded assassin suddenly felt incredibly lightheaded as her eyes fluttered shut because holy _shit_ , she was kissing Wanda Maximoff, and it was even better than she’d ever dared to imagine. __

__

__Time seemed to freeze as they stood there, lips locked, Wanda’s hands stroking the soft skin of the assassin’s tilted jawline, Natasha’s hands placed respectfully on the taller woman’s jean-clad hips. Wanda giggled into the older woman's lips at that, grabbing at the assassin’s bare shoulders and urging her to hold her tighter, grinning into the kiss as she felt Natasha eagerly comply. Arching her back to press the full length of her body against Natasha's, she began tracing the seam of the redhead’s full lips with her tongue, moaning when Natasha immediately granted her entrance._ _

__

__Eventually, they were forced to part out of necessity for air (though with Natasha’s training, she wasn’t nearly as winded as Wanda from lack of oxygen—she was winded from something else entirely, and it was all Wanda), both chuckling at the sight of each other’s mussed hair and kiss-swollen lips, faces still inches apart as they caught their breath._ _

__

__They shared a few more chaste kisses as their breathing returned to normal, consciously slowing their pace, knowing they needed to talk about all of… _this_. A wave of disappointment hit Natasha as she felt Wanda gently pulling away, though it was quickly quelled as the young witch’s hands continued to draw absentminded patterns on the skin beneath Natasha’s jawline. _ _

__

__“Your ranting,” Wanda sounded out of breath (which Natasha delighted in, because _she’d_ done that), her Sokovian accent noticeably stronger than normal, “was _so_ cute,” she finished, one hand coming up to tuck a stray lock of Natasha’s beautiful red hair behind her ear, the other continuing to stroke the older woman’s smooth jawline. _ _

__

__Natasha pouted when Wanda called her ‘cute'—yes, actually _pouted._ She’d deny it later when Clint prodded her for every juicy detail, because she was Natasha Romanoff, the feared and infamous Black Widow, and the Black Widow most certainly did not _pout_. But there was something about Wanda, something about the way those blue eyes gazed so softly down at her that never failed to make Natasha _melt_ , even despite the hardened exterior she’d so carefully constructed over the years._ _

__

__“I’m not cute,” Natasha grumbled in response, her pert button nose scrunching in a way Wanda found absolutely adorable. “I’m an ex-assassin, ex-KGB, and I can kill a man with my pinky fing—“_ _

__

__Natasha’s train of thought was interrupted yet again by Wanda's warm lips pressing firmly against her own, but really, she couldn’t find it in herself to complain, because that didn’t matter right now— _nothing_ else mattered right now, not when Wanda was giggling playfully in Natasha’s arms and pressing gentle kisses to every inch of pale skin she could reach, making Natasha squirm and giggle and laugh—really, truly, laugh—like she hadn’t in a very long time. _ _

__

__Natasha couldn’t help but think that maybe Clint wasn’t her only safe place in the world—maybe Wanda could be home, too._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's it! I would love it if you left comments, letting me know what you thought (what you liked, what you didn't, etc.)... and thanks so much for reading :)


End file.
